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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28393410">winesweet</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphy/pseuds/seraphy'>seraphy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Assassin's Creed - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fade to Black, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Eivor, endgame spoilers, historical inaccuracies abound probably, no explicit content</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:15:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,426</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28393410</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphy/pseuds/seraphy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>As he gazed upon Hytham, his face shielded by his hood, he looked so real, so alive, and he wanted nothing more than to throw the hood back, pry every secret from between his lips, the things that made him gasp, twist, pine.</p><p>(Or, alternatively, in which Eivor goads Hytham into crawling out of that stifling bureau, just for a little bit).</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eivor/Hytham (Assassin's Creed)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>103</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>winesweet</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>so uh, the ac lore is extremely confusing + i know little to no history abt this time period. i used what resources were available to me but please do not look at this with a historically critical lens because i think i just made a bunch of middle ages historians cry . </p><p>also like 95% of my characterization of hytham is based off the 3 sassy hand-on-hip poses he does &amp; that one wink</p><p>anyway, unbeta'd (if you see tense changes, no you dont)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There was a cold and balmy winter that year, one to rival that of Skadi’s mountaintops—turning England’s green hillsides white and the air so frigid that it froze the breath from one’s lips. The nights were long, the days short, extinguished by the horizon in just a few hours, and the sun casted short, lame shadows, slithering along the ground before it plunged behind the cover of clouds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, it was not nearly as cold as Eivor had experienced it back home—and the sight of snow always did bring a fond smile to his face, especially when England herself favored stormy weather. Sometimes the cloud cover would stretch for days, and he would yearn for the touch of the sun as the rain soaked the ground so much it ran downhill, muddied, to the river. The days in England, between violent, bloody bursts of battle, often blended together in a seamless, dreary puddle of gray, for it rained almost all year. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Jól approached and the winter stiffened the rainwater into miserable puddles unworthy of skating, he listened to the skalds sing of Fimbulvetr, the great winter that preceded Ragnarök, as children scandalously wondered if this was the omen that would usher the destruction of all. This winter was probably the coldest they’ve ever endured in England. Their voices resounded in the longhouse as he aided in the preparation of Jól, for which great amounts of mead and food were needed to not only celebrate, but toast to the gods for a bountiful harvest and a quick, merciful winter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The camp was always busier this time of year. Mistletoe dotted the houses, the altars bloated with offerings, the air thick with laughter and the stench of mead and sudor. There were new, fresh faces—some round with youthful glow, some chiseled and scarred from winters of battle. They appeared more and more everyday, greeting him in passing. Yes, in a way, he could call this their new home, if he could forget the sacrifices and the hard work that went into it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was bittersweet. Sigurd was physically present, but ever since he had rescued him from Fulke and they had travelled back to Norway, there had been something lost — something untranslatable between them, a bond slowly fraying, an unreadable gleam in his eyes. He could attribute the distance to age, wisdom, evolution. Fate, one of the thousands of threads lost in his quest for glory. Theirs was something that could not be repaired. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Randvi, of course. He did not miss her furtive glances, her questioning looks, the wild and adventure-hungry look in her eyes. She was free of Sigurd, free to be the woman of adventure and glory she had yearned to be. As he watched her now, she laughed with unbridled mirth while carving open the boar they would eat in celebration. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basim. That speaks for itself. Sometimes he rounded a corner, expecting him to be there, shoulder casually leaned on a wall, watching, always watching. He was a shadow, the turning knife of grief in his stomach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hytham. He was unsure of what Hytham meant to him, even now. When he met him, he could almost call him shy, his owl-sharp eyes peering under the hood skeptically at Eivor as Sigurd gifted him the hidden blade. Yet he was not without his resolve—it burned brighter than a beacon, his face sharpened with wit and valor. A friend, yes. One he could be proud of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This unnamed grief lingered between them, ever since Basim’s betrayal. Hytham was always housebound, nosedeep in what seemed like an endless sludge of scrolls and text written in runes he could not understand. Theirs was a beautiful sort, drawings with sharp, distinct lines and luscious, wayfaring curves. It mimicked hillsides, seashores, the plunge of a vale. Yet Hytham maneuvered this battlefield with ease, one of knowledge and strategy and ancient secrets coded behind ciphers and clues. He and Basim could make sense of those strange runes, which sounded even more musical when spoken aloud. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eivor looked to the sky, the sun stranded in the middle. Every winter, an ancient voice whispered its fear into his ear: would the sun abandon them forever, plunge behind the mountain peaks, never to return? The Earth would hold its breath, so certain of something that was as tried and true as the ocean tides, of rainfall and snowmelt—that the sun would rise again. Darkness is deep but brief. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>As it is in our lives. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eivor felt distinctly distant from the celebration that year. He laughed and drank and ate, yes, listening to the stories that were retold every year, whose details changed ever so slightly. Made them evermore fantastical and grandiose, feats of heads rolling and axes flying and throats singing. Bloodsong. Heartstopping.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was the memories of Norway that haunted him. The impossible temple, he called it, with its perfectly straight lines, its dark corners, carved into the side of a mountain. Another cipher, another language he could not understand, even if it touched the faint vestige of a memory. Sigurd wanted to talk about it. Eivor didn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The skalds sung of Valhalla. The impossibly bright place, bloodshed on repeat, the same, fake glory that was forgotten after the heat of the moment. The meat that tasted fake, the mead too sweet. There was nothing more miserable than that. They sung of Odin, a name that made his teeth clench and his body tense, as if he could feel the ghost of him, whispering bile into his ear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was another night where he feared the sun would never rise again. The stars glittered coldly, unwelcomingly, crude epigones of what lit the sky blue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eivor found himself drifting away, gazing among the meaddrunk faces, pinched with laughter and red with the cold. Of course one was missing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without much thought, he swung his feet off the table and retreated into the night. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The heart of Ravensthorpe, usually bursting with mirth, was quiet. The sound of voices and song travelled over the river, but here, the night reigned. It felt deserted, almost, away from the raucous chorus of skalds and gloryhounds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bureau was lit from the inside. So Hytham was still awake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The place was organized chaos, as always. Basim was the one who kept everything in order, chiding Hytham for his childish inclinations toward disorganization when he thought Eivor was out of earshot. Without his influence, the bureau quickly deteriorated into a mess of unfurled maps and clumsy messages, with just enough room for a footpath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A letter laid on the table, the seal recently broken. More of the runes he couldn't understand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you waiting for permission?” Hytham asked, his back to him. How his voice transformed language, made it music, gave it rhythm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, just admiring your … </span>
  <em>
    <span>arrangement </span>
  </em>
  <span>of letters and maps. I would not want to disturb their graves.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So crude,” Hytham chided, and then he laughed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>waiting on permission to come join us outside?” Eivor asked, hoping Hytham could hear the smile in his voice. He leaned his shoulder on the doorway and crossed his arms, gazing absently at the lantern overhead. “It’s been six winters now. Are we such </span>
  <em>
    <span>cold</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>unwelcoming</span>
  </em>
  <span> hosts?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I forgot what day it was,” came the cheeky reply. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because you never come outside unless it’s for a pi—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are drunk, Eivor. Return to your friends.” Hytham rolled up a scroll and looked at him. Eivor swayed, ever so slightly, but not because of the mead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you think this is drunk, you haven’t seen anything, Hytham. Do you avoid us because you’re afraid we’ll discover you’re a lightweight?” Eivor stumbled through the primitive footpath toward him, knocking his hip into the corner of the table in the process. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hytham slipped silently from the chair and caught the scroll that almost tipped over. His fluid grace against Eivor’s drunken sloppiness. It brought them perilously close. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not so.” Hytham repeated with a wry smile, flattening the pages back onto the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This close, Eivor could gaze upon him intimately. See all the ways he’d changed. It was hard to believe he was the same man as the timid, jumpy hummingbird who got off the boat in Fornburg, eyes always trained up toward his mentor. The years had aged him, wisened him, chipped away at that boyish roundness in his face. What he had mistaken for shyness was actually coyness, and Hytham could actually be quite witty and charming when he wanted to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was afraid we’d offended you,” Eivor said, not stepping back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You? Offensive? Only by your breath,” Hytham returned almost too easily. Maybe he </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> too drunk to catch up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hytham seemed to pity his inebriated state and laughed, shaking his head as he returned to his work. “Ah, you are too drunk for this, Eivor. Go back and celebrate without me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Damn</span>
  </em>
  <span>. So he had lost this battle. He was used to swaying others with shows of strength and prowess, and he could destroy anyone in </span>
  <em>
    <span>flyting</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but when it came to Hytham, his charm dried up and the words lodged in his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eivor tried a different approach—honesty. “You stay holed up in here. You should come out for a change.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I cannot, Eivor. There’s work that needs to be done.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What work can’t wait for one night?” Eivor pressed, firm. “We’ve eradicated the Order, have we not? Shouldn’t that be cause for celebration?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ælfred only lives in exile. I have a feeling he may be up to something. And if we falter, they will regain their footing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eivor frowned. “He said he bequeathed the position unwillingly when his brother passed. He seemed quite content folding old women’s laundry in anonymity.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So we should not lose our advantage.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Empires do not fall in a day, Hytham.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hytham finally peered over his shoulder at him, fixed on him with that simpering gaze. “Empires have fallen over less. Negligence, laziness, greed… Lust.” The corner of his eyes crinkled in a smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eivor decided not to address the comment. “After everything, don’t you think we deserve to celebrate?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hytham faltered. Cloud over his eyes, the mirth fading from his face. “Alright. Fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eivor opened his mouth to reply, but Hytham cut him off with a grin. “For a little bit. A walk.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To the festival. Naturally.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you are sober enough to make it that far?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eivor just laughed. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am </span>
  </em>
  <span>sober. But I am also a man of my word.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was snowing when he stepped out again. The flurries fell slowly, lazily, the ground cold enough that they stuck to the grass and the dirt, slowly blanketing the earth in white. Hytham pulled up his hood to fight against the wind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He noticed Hytham’s eyes, gleaming in the night. Pale blue fire, the beginning of dawn. It was one of the first things he noticed, those unusual eyes, at first searing in protest, now simmering quietly, brimming with untold secrets. They were transformed by wonder, gazing up at the sky as if he could find the source of this magic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does it not snow where you’re from?” Eivor asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am from everywhere,” Hytham replied cryptically, but then lowered his eyes to gaze at Eivor with a smile that could only be described as teasing. “I jest. ... I’ve travelled everywhere. I have seen snow before I came here, if that is what you’re asking.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And yet you look at it like you’ve never seen it before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because it is always new to me,” Hytham said. “... When I was a child, it did not snow, no. It was … arid, and it could become very cold, yes, but only at night. The days in the summer were long and hot. But I have not felt a cold like there was in Norway, no. It felt like it was inside of me, in my veins. It felt like I would never be warm again.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hytham had a way of talking. It was resonant, almost winesweet—he could get drunk on the sensation. Like a skald, a song without singing, stringing him along through every word. An adventure in its own right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eivor smiled. “Travellers have often described it that way.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Basim loved the snow.” Hytham was looking away now. “He marvelled at it, as he did a lot of the natural world. He loved the snow, the stars, the ocean, to name a few. He was… not the man you knew.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You came from a similar place, then?” Eivor asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hytham seemed to deliberate on this. “Basim did not tell me much about himself, or his childhood. He was from Syria, I believe, which is very far south from here, but he grew up around the city of Baghdad. I cannot be certain. A very beautiful place, I know that. Universities,” he glanced at Eivor’s confused look, “large buildings, like those in English cities, dedicated to learning. Mosques, places of worship. Astronomy, mathematics, architecture, all striving for a greater understanding of our world. It is a golden place to live.” Then, quietly, “I miss him, sometimes. His wisdom, his confidence. I wish I knew what went wrong.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If Basim was from a place like that, it explains why he was as enigmatic as he was.” He thought of his body lifelessly suspended from Yggdrasil. All that knowledge, that gold, siphoned, guzzled away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Basim took me many places,” Hytham added, tightening his robes as it grew colder, “places you would not even believe. Decadent places, full of grandeur and hidden treasures, temples larger than the eye could see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eivor thought of Norway, the cave carved into the side of the mountain. “I may begin to imagine . . .”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The corner of Hytham’s mouth curled into a sour smile. There was an unspoken sentiment there, a relationship between Hytham and Basim that he didn’t understand. “The world is much bigger than we think, and even when we think we have seen it or understand its magnitude, it becomes bigger yet. Looking back on it now, I see his delusions, his mania. I was just a boy back then. But I still cannot bring myself to regret those years.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was hard to imagine any world that existed beyond the small border of Fornburg, and yet he had traversed all of England’s four kingdoms. Met shadows like Basim, Hytham—fledglings like Ceolbert and Hunwald, imposing figures like Halfdan and Ivarr. Most of them gone, already memory. As he gazed upon Hytham, his face shielded by his hood, he looked so real, so alive, and he wanted nothing more than to throw the hood back, pry every secret from between his lips, the things that made him gasp, twist, pine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I feel like I have seen everything the world has to offer,” Eivor admitted. “When you’ve seen mountains, hillsides, vales, oceans, and ancient temples with unbelievable treasures, what else is there to see?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Much more.” Hytham paused and looked at him. “There is beauty to be found everyday, in the smallest of things.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eivor chuckled. “Were you always so wise, my friend? I seem to remember you as a shy, apprehensive thing, jumping at the beat of Huginn’s wings.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, Hytham quirked an eyebrow at him. “You were gone for so </span>
  <em>
    <span>long </span>
  </em>
  <span>sometimes, Eivor. Did you truly think I stayed homebound?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They continued on in silence for a while, listening to the sound of the festival getting closer. The snow became heavier, the wind whistling through the trees, sticking stubbornly to their hair. He was not sure what else to say. It had been a while since they’d had alone time like this, away from the rest of the settlement—the last time he could remember was when Hytham had taught him how to close his eyes and leap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hytham, of all people, had taught him that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your Jól,” Hytham began suddenly, as the forest opened up to the festival. His voice regained its usual debonair cheeriness. “You never told me what it was all about.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eivor paused for a moment. “It’s about many things. We proffer our offerings to appease our gods, to make the winter merciful and short. A blót may please them enough to make our next harvest bountiful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And there is the log. We keep it burning in hopes it will help the sun to move again.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Eivor looked over, Hytham was contemplative, gazing upon the festival, the children scurrying around the tables and hanging offerings on the boughs of evergreen trees. They joined the songs with their creaky, excited voices, or cheered on the victims of the most recent brawl. Others crafted forts, pelting each other with snowballs, already glory-drunk off their first tastes of battle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stood at the edge of it all, and in that moment, he realized: they both longed for the same thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They will be glad to see you,” Eivor encouraged genuinely. “Just stay—for a drink or two. Maybe a story.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Randvi appeared from the crowd, her cheeks red with wine and her laughter full of spirit, a tankard swinging dangerously as she stumbled. “Hytham! We were just talking about you!” She slung her arm around him and dragged him away from Eivor, while he gazed back at Hytham with an impish grin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After watching them for a while, Eivor called after her, “Be careful with him, Randvi, he’s as delicate as a feather!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The night was long. He drank, and the sounds melted together, one song blurring into the next, the brightness and vitality of the pyre searing a headache into his skull. But it was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>good </span>
  </em>
  <span>headache, the kind that came from dancing and laughing and hearty yelling and overeating. Surely all of the Nine Worlds would shake from their hooting and their cheering, singing their voices raw. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At some point, he had been talked into a drinking contest, six horns deep and the world was tilting dangerously around him. The memories of Valhalla, of Basim’s voice like poisoned honey, loosened their grip on his mind and retreated, lingering like the vestige of a nightmare. It could be chased away by laughter and story, and for one moment, he could forget everything that had happened this past winter. Bury it in the back of his mind, wash it downstream, lose himself in the coy gleam of Hytham’s ocean-like eyes—pray to Njord that he doesn’t drown in such treacherous, alluring waters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At some point, Hytham stumbled into the brawling circle, and Eivor watched, the crowd roaring, as he nimbly stepped around his opponent, slipping from their grip like a fish. He goaded them into striking, which was quite entertaining when the man was an entire head taller than him. He was amusing himself, dodging their punches and parrying what he couldn’t evade, knocking them over into the snow when they were too drunk to recover. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned to Eivor with his hands on his hips in a way he’d only seen him do a few times in the past. His eyes were shining, nose and cheeks winter-bitten, breathless from the ordeal. He stumbled between the throng of people, settling down on a bench by the pyre.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d almost forgotten what you looked like fighting, Hytham; I’m so used to seeing you count your scrolls,” Eivor teased him, “I was beginning to believe the sword at your hip was merely a decoration.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I needed this, Eivor,” said Hytham with a laugh. “Thank you. I feel much warmer now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Winedrunk, Eivor offered him a smile, watching the way mirth transformed Hytham’s face, a bit loosened from the mead. “You look a bit winded, friend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hytham smiled. It was disarmed now, less cautious, less performative. The orange of the flame limned his face, a riot of ripe reds, yellows, shadows. “My injury is starting to bother me again. It is better than it used to be, but the cold weather aggravates it, and I stretched my limits today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing a bit of mead can’t fix.” Eivor lifted Hytham’s hand and placed a tankard in it. Listening closely, Eivor could hear the worrying shakiness to his breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a while, Hytham added, “You and your kinsmen have gone to great lengths to make me feel welcome here. I appreciate it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are one of us, Hytham,” Eivor said, “I mean that. Will you join us for the rest of the festival?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, and here I thought you’d said one night.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You seemed to enjoy yourself, is all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hytham leaned on his arm to stand, and Eivor could tell he was using a lot of energy to hide the pain he was in. “I did. But the world will not wait for me, Eivor. Just as glory does not wait for you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Empires,” Hytham added with a wink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eivor was unable to stop his smile. “Empires.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The walk back to the bureau was much shorter and quieter. Hytham seemed to be in deep thought, pulling his hood back up, as midnight brought with her colder, brisker air. The snow fell heavily, their boots sinking with every step. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I should get him better shoes</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Eivor thought absently. His weariness was catching up with him, the world swimming by him in a confusing morass of sensations and lights. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something on your mind, Hytham? You’ve been quiet,” Eivor finally asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am thinking about Basim, still,” Hytham admitted. “He always did like this time of year—your Jól.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His absence weighs on you heavily, I see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It does. Which is why I want to know. I want to know what happened.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eivor hesitated. Ever since he came back, he figured that keeping the truth from Hytham was for the best. “I don’t quite understand it myself, but I think it’s best if we let it rest. What I saw was… it was…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hytham stepped in front of him, his eyes burning fiercely under his hood. “I have not asked much of you, Eivor. I ask only of this. Implore you, even.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What I saw was … impossible.” The memory still leaves him dizzy. “A … temple. Inside a cave. It was massive, larger than anything I’d ever seen. And it was breathtaking.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hytham’s face lit up. “A temple, in Norway…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could not tell if it was day or night, or how much time had passed. Basim followed us there—I don’t know how, I don’t know how I didn’t see him or… At any rate, I believe he was accusing me of murdering his son. Toward the end, he seemed… mad. He threatened to kill Sigurd—and me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hytham frowned. Chewed on this thought for a while, stepping out of Eivor’s way. “So you had no choice. You did what must be done. I suppose I will never understand it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you ask for your own curiosity, but …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do have other motives.” Hytham pulled his hood forward again, as the wind had blown it back. His eyes fixed on Eivor’s, almost longing, as he stood at the entrance of the bureau. “My mentor wants to know what happened. He claims to have witnessed this kind of behavior in Basim before. As have I. They desire a full accounting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you’ll write him? I can help you; I’ll explain it, you can write it,” Eivor offered. “I’m sure they will want to hear about the temple as well.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hytham smiled again, but it was dimmer. “O, no, Eivor. I must return to him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eivor stopped walking. Hytham continued ahead, picking up that same letter Eivor was examining earlier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re leaving, then,” Eivor finally said, feeling desolate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Indeed. We all leave home someday.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Home. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He recalled Basim saying that Hytham had come to think of Ravensthorpe as home, family. And yet, the idea of Hytham’s absence stirred a feeling in him he dared not explain. “Where will you go?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hytham folded his hands behind his back again, contemplative. “South. More specifically, Deylam, a Hidden Ones’ stronghold. They would like to hear it in person, from me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No longer the acolyte, you are. You’ve accomplished much.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not without your help. Because of you, we’ve expunged the Order from these lands.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eivor was silent for a while, wrestling with this growing unease in his chest. “When will you leave?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Two summers from now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something childish in Eivor protested. Hytham had become an anchor, a bulwark in his ongoing war against the Order. Long gone was the boy who futilely threw himself at Kjotve. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hytham was continuing: “The world is always in a perpetual war, darkness against light. Day against night. It happens inside of us, around us. Your gods know this. You know this. Jól recognizes this, even.” He folded up the letter and tucked it away in a drawer. “That is who we are.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope our paths will meet again after that,” Eivor remarked, keeping his voice neutral.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hytham crossed his arms and leaned against the desk, amused. “Does the prospect of my absence bother you so?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve lost so many, Hytham. Plenty I’ve ushered to Valhalla on the beat of a mighty Valkyrie’s wings. A rare few may stumble into gilded Heaven’s gates, their god willing. Others are still here, with me, but they’ve left me long ago.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have such beautiful words, Eivor, but never have they said so little about what you truly mean.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“. . .I am bad at goodbyes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hytham fixed him with an unreadable gaze, like pale blue fire. Again Eivor was seized by an unimaginable inclination—to capture this dream as it were, memorialize it, translate love into action, touch. And when had he gotten so close? So close he could count his lashes, the imperfections that speak to many a battle, the laugh lines that hint at wisdom. Something else possessed him. A feeling that cut deeper than caverns and chasms, the feeling skalds write ballads about. He’d been living in the dark since Norway, waiting, waiting for the sun, and now he could hold it in his hands, feel its heat—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But there are still two summers to learn yet.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So teach me,” Eivor whispered, and kissed him before he could reply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was not rough, desperate as all his other trysts had been—but it was</span>
  <em>
    <span> electric, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hytham pliable beneath his hands, melting, arching, his hands coming to cup his cheeks, wander over the wolf-kissed skin of his neck, his throat. Eivor tossed his hood back, admiring his beauty in dying firelight, yet Hytham pulled back, wouldn’t give him what he </span>
  <em>
    <span>truly</span>
  </em>
  <span> wanted, making him bite back a groan of frustration. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet he didn’t make any move to pull away. He was breathless, and for a second Eivor feared he’d irritated his injury, but all Hytham asked was, “what am I to you, Eivor?</span>
  <em>
    <span>”</span>
  </em>
  <span> all mystery and coyness again, though that question burned his eyes, whetted his boldness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eivor, for once, stumbled. “I—“ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hytham smiled, and it was like Thor’s lightning, blindly bright, uprooting the world. “Am I another conquest to you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Eivor said sharply. “No. Of course not.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They kissed again, and this time it was enough to make his knees shake, draw the breath from his lungs. Hytham’s hands were cold, tracing unknowable runes on the back of his neck, but that only drove him closer, past the lantern and to the desk. This was a language he could understand: passion and heat, the realm where words weren’t enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eivor gasped quietly as Hytham’s arms wrapped around his neck, feeling the frozen bite of his blade against his flesh. It sent a dangerous shudder through his body, slanting his lips against Hytham’s until just a </span>
  <em>
    <span>kiss </span>
  </em>
  <span>was not enough. Eivor propped him against the desk, hands slipping down his back while his mouth ravished his neck, which pulled the most </span>
  <em>
    <span>divine</span>
  </em>
  <span> song from his lips, sounds and vowels that were musical, that he yearned to </span>
  <em>
    <span>learn. </span>
  </em>
  <span>This was the glory he’d been missing, oh, writ in every hymn that spilled from him—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hytham’s lips gently traced the shell of his ear, his voice uneven, desperate. “You say goodbye like I leave </span>
  <em>
    <span>tomorrow, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eivor.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eivor was giddy, from the mead or Hytham he could not say. He smiled against his skin, every inch of his body alight, every inch yearning to close this tiny gap between them. His mouth touched whatever it could reach: the corner of his mouth, his throat, the slope of his collarbone. “Fate is fixed, but we never know what threads the Nornir weave for us.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It seems like you already understand the first lesson.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sly bastard. You’re making this up as we go along,” Eivor’s voice deepened into a purr, teeth catching Hytham’s lip. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“According to you,” Hytham began, “this moment was determined well before we ever met.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was.” Eivor leaned forward for another kiss, which Hytham obliged.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Such a tenet violates everything I’ve ever believed in. But that is who you are, Eivor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Filled with a new desperation, Eivor slipped his hands between the straps and buckles over his robes, yearning for his warmth, his skin. “Can the next lesson teach me how to take these off?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hytham laughed, and it was resonant. “Skipping lessons is not permitted.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eivor pressed his forehead to his, blue to blue. “I am not a patient man, Hytham.” Love repurposed him into someone desperate—striving for light, for touch. Everywhere Hytham touched felt like the tongue of a flame, desire scorching his blood, every word and every syllable. And he knew this, revelled in it, </span>
  <em>
    <span>teased </span>
  </em>
  <span>him. Teased him with every brush of their lips, with every breathless phrase in a language he didn’t know. “I never was. I never </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another kiss. More divine sounds from his mouth, and Eivor knew Hytham wanted it as much as he did, </span>
  <em>
    <span>needed</span>
  </em>
  <span> it as much as he did. Hytham arched into him, surrendered to him more with every touch, utterly disarmed, enchanting, </span>
  <em>
    <span>maddening. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hytham held his face, his voice again in his ear, his hand wandering down his ribs, over a thigh. “Then someone should teach you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eivor opened his eyes. His head ached. His </span>
  <em>
    <span>body</span>
  </em>
  <span> ached. Pink and yellow light seeped into a dark room, the smell of stale candlesmoke in the air, a chill on his skin. He looked down. Hytham slept as he did everything else: messily, his limbs splayed under the blankets. He should have taken him to the longhouse—it was astonishing they both could even fit in the bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So many things to do. Sagas still unwritten, and every second brought them closer and closer to the summer of his departure. Yet he could not bring himself to move, to leave him here in this disorder that he now recognized as another symptom of grief. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would be a very rude goodbye. One Eivor was accustomed to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking out the window across the room, he saw the sun peeking above the horizon. So it had come back for another day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hytham stirred, as if sensing Eivor was awake. He seemed surprised that he was still there, features lit up in the dim light, and he hesitated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eivor looked at him. “Did last night change your mind at all? About leaving?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hytham yawned. His voice was unusually raspy, morning-bitten, different from the clear lilt he was used to. “I must go, Eivor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eivor looked at his hands. “Of course. Duty calls.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But it may have changed my mind about returning.” Eivor felt Hytham’s hand slide over his, and how strange it felt without the blade, disarmed and vulnerable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps it is time for the Hidden Ones to return to England. Make her a stronghold. If I am permitted to lead it—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eivor smiled. “You can be arrogant in front of me, Hytham. You have carried most of this work on your back.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hytham’s eyes glimmered. “But I suppose I still cannot convince you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Our goals are similar, Hytham. But your way of life is not for me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighed. “But you are undeniably a part of our story. When the Hidden Ones speak of the Order and England, your name will be written and sung alongside.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eivor kissed his hand. “As yours will be in our sagas.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There is still work to be done.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eivor grinned, mischief alight in his eyes as he pulled Hytham closer.  “And now I have a new method of persuasion to pull you from said work.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have given you too much power over me, now,” Hytham lamented, playful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I intend to exercise it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Hytham was smiling as Eivor kissed him, the strengthening sun pouring over them both. </span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>100% a fan of the idea of basim dragging hytham everywhere, &amp; hytham just kind of went with it &amp; didn't question it because he was Learning. &amp; that basim was not really loki the whole time (ik the comics kind of refute this but Listen). of course hytham doesn't understand what really happened &amp; he probably never will, but i like to think basim was very wise &amp; hytham took every little bit of wisdom basim taught him to heart. a genuine nurturing father/son relationship. &amp; that while basim + eivor were gone he learned a lot about what made his beliefs /his/ beliefs. introspection makes you wise &amp; all that yadda yadda.</p><p>find me @ DlAPHANES on twitter (I is a lowercase L)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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